


when envy steps aside and love slips back in

by mariatyler



Category: The Politician's Husband
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariatyler/pseuds/mariatyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aiden wants Freya back. Set a while after the finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when envy steps aside and love slips back in

It’s not easy at first, not at all. There’s still a matter of his pride, and his envy – even after all that happened before because of those two fatal flaws, they still dominate his very being in the early days of her leadership.

 

Strictly-speaking, for the façade and all that, they still live together. In their posh new place of residence. Separate rooms, however, and for the most part, separate lives; but of course, they are still irrevocably intertwined, what with seeing each other every day at work. The kids don’t know quite what to make of it all, initially, particularly Noah. But the four of them struggle through the transition phase.

Somewhere along the way, Aiden recognises – through the haze of both guilt and self-pity – that he needs, desperately, to atone for his actions. In the pursuit of power and amidst the jealousy that had consumed him, he had ruined his old friend’s career – and though he still thinks that result was merited, it came at a devastating cost. His marriage, over. His father, dead, and oh, those last words of his poor old Dad will haunt Aiden for the rest of his life.

And though it grates on him to have to address her as PM in cabinet meetings; though it darkens his mood if he is questioned on his feelings of her rise to success, he slowly finds acceptance in his new, admittedly undeserved, role. And sometimes, watching her give her speeches, watching her be so capable and brilliant, it – it makes his heart beat too quickly. He’d treated her abominably, but fucking hell, he still loves her. He never stopped.

There are moments when he thinks that, despite her eagerness to assert that he threw their marital relationship down the toilet, they are still friends. One of the finest things to come about because of their new jobs is that the close proximity to one another at least reminds them, sometimes, of the old days. They still laugh – well, not at first, it’s all strained and tense and a bit awful at first, but a few months down the line and he’ll make some remark and she’s doubled over giggling.

It’s a bit of a shock to the system, that, witnessing that something that he’s done – just a silly joke, really, truly ridiculous; political humour isn’t the most hearty of comedic enterprises – can still bring a semblance of happiness to her face.

He misses her an extraordinary amount, even though they see each other all the time. Because it’s not the same, of course. Before he cocked everything up, they had both been people who liked to be physically connected to one another. And he doesn’t mean the sex – well, he does, but not just that – he means the casual, quiet stuff. The way she used to brush her hand along his arm as she walked past him, or run her fingers through his hair, or lean in and loop her arms around his neck as she checked – rewrote – his speeches over his shoulder. The way he used to link their hands together at every opportunity at home; the snuggling on the sofa whilst watching telly or the children; his hand on her leg beneath the dining table. It’s like a fundamental part of him is missing, and he gets all those metaphors, now, the one’s about losing lovers and phantom limbs.

He does not even try to make things work with someone else. Doesn’t bother. Really, he wouldn’t have the time, anyway, to cultivate something new with a stranger or even a colleague. And the idea of shagging someone else still resonates as wrong, somehow, deep in his gut, even though he essentially has free reign to pursue that these days. He’s not sure if she feels the same way, or if she’s just too busy sorting out the shit the country’s going through, but he doesn’t think she’s engaged in anything of that sort yet, either. But when she goes on her long work trips, the ones where he is absolutely not necessary, he does nurse a scotch or three and wonder.

He tries not to think about the ways in which he hurt her, but he does think about it. Every night, staring up at a ceiling that thankfully has no crack in it. God, that crack in the ceiling of their old bedroom used to drive him barmy. Shaped vaguely like a question mark, it’d always got at him whilst he was restless or upset.

The manipulation and the game-planning and potential career-ruining moves he’d put her through pales in comparison to what really eats away at him, though. That night, oh Jesus that night.

He knows it’s reductive to think about how awful he feels over it, considering that she’s the one who had to experience it, she’s the one who has to live with the memory of him doing that to her, but the guilt he feels is immeasurable. He’d told her, after, that everyone does things they are not proud of. Glib. Insensitive. Fuck, he’d been such a bastard. What a self-justifying statement – and one he didn’t even feel justified for anyway. But to push away the gnawing guilt had seemingly been the only option whilst playing the power game.

Months on, and it’s been clear to him for a while that he had been wrong about her and Bruce. Another mark in the ‘prat’ column for Aiden. And with a glass of red wine one night, after going over some proposals in her office, she tells him about what actually happened on the evening that she’d been at Bruce’s apartment.

“He did make a move,” she blurts out suddenly.

Aiden closes the paperwork-filled folder and takes a sip of his drink. “Who did?” he asks, because they had just been talking about immigration, and he is confused by the non-sequitur.

“Bruce.”

He sits up rigid. “When?”

“The night I had that tour.”

He swallows hard. “Will you tell me what happened then?”

Freya blows out a long breath. “Well, we were working. And then he told me that he’d got me there under false pretences. He spouted off a load of bollocks about you and Dita, and then…”

Aiden raises his eyebrows. “Then?” he prompts.

“Then he kissed me.”

Aiden stares at his glass and swirls the wine for a few moments, taking that in. “Did you - ” he croaks out, then stops. He raises his gaze to meet hers. “Did you kiss him back?”

Freya smiles. “Well, I played along for a minute to see what he had to say. I pointed out that it would be foolish – two Cabinet members going there. He was all ‘let’s risk it.’ And then I laughed in his face and he backed off.”

Aiden blinks at her in silence for a second. “Hold on, did you just say you laughed in his face?”

She sniffs, and shrugs. “Mmm. Bit cruel. Couldn’t help it. It was hilarious, how he expected me to fall for his bullshit.”

To his great surprise, Aiden finds his mouth quirking into a small smile.

“Needn’t look so smug,” she scoffs, but there’s a glint in her eye.

“I just – sorry.” Then he pauses and cautiously tests the waters, wondering if he truly wants to know or not but saying it all the same, “If things had been different, if he’d really meant it or if you weren’t both part of the Cabinet - ”

“No. I didn’t have feelings for him. I never did.”

He nods his acceptance. “Right.”

Freya stands up and walks around her desk, before perching on the edge of it in front of his chair. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You should have trusted me. You don’t really deserve an account of the events.”

“I know. But you have to admit, it was all shaping up to be very suspicious.”

She laughs. “In your paranoid mind it was, yes.”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

Freya continues, “I don’t know why, but even though you shouldn’t need to ask, I did want you to know this. For certain.” She pauses, and meets his eyes fearlessly. “I was never unfaithful.”

“Neither was I,” he says softly. He looks at her boldly, then – not that he can avoid looking at her. She’s sitting there right in front of him, filling his vision, in her smart black skirt and silky blouse. Her knees – is it weird that he misses her knees? That’s probably weird. But just look at them, right there all nonchalant beneath the hem of her skirt.

She catches his gaze wandering over her, he knows she does. But she doesn’t say anything, merely arches one eyebrow. What she says next completely surprises him.

“Have you been seeing anyone?” she asks.

“No.”

“Oh.”

He feels a nervous, sick feeling start to form in his stomach. “Have you?”

She hesitates, and it very nearly makes his fists clench, but then she answers candidly, “I thought that maybe I might. You know, to properly move on. I haven’t though.”

He nods quickly, trying to hide the fact that his heart is slowly being sliced into pieces. “Well, if that’s what you want. You just need to do what makes you happy, Freya.”

“Uncharacteristically gracious of you,” she murmurs. “But that’s not what I meant.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand - ”

“I haven’t moved on. Not completely. It’s been…” she sighs, smiling wistfully. “It’s been very good, having some freedom. Having a life apart from a marriage. Being myself, for myself, by myself. But I do miss you.”

“Well, we – we - ” he stutters, “We shared a life together for all those years. Bound to be a few problems adjusting.”

“No, no, I adjusted just fine. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I miss you.” She pauses, eyeing his reactions carefully. “It’s been months since the election, I know, but that – that means it’s also been months since...” she trails off meaningfully, and he is back abruptly to election night, the memory making his heart jump and his trousers tighten.

It had been a year after their behind-the-scenes-split (they were still the Golden Couple for the campaign personas) when she won the leadership bid. A year of subtle digs at one another and private rows and spiteful comments and the outward projection of a united and happy home front. A year of them adjusting to their new relationship status of separation, and, consequently, a year of no sex. And then the election had happened, and he had congratulated her. There had been wine, and accidental touching, and then all of a sudden they’d been fucking roughly on the floor of her office.

And it had been fantastic.

He wonders why she’s brought it up. Wonders if she still thinks about it all the time, like he does.

“You don’t deserve my forgiveness,” she says next, and he closes his eyes.

“Then don’t give it to me,” he replies.

“But then, holding a grudge – it’s tiring. It’s a lot of effort, you know, trying to hate you.”

His eyes pop open. “What are you saying?”

“Look at us, Aiden. Look where we are, finally.” She stops, and stands up, wandering over to the window. It’s late, but the blinds are still open, and she looks out into the darkness, the odd streetlight or two outside lighting up one side of her face. “I won?” she says, but it comes out as more of a question.

He rubs at his neck nervously, wondering where all this is going. “Yes, you did,” he confirms.

“But we’re both here,” she points out. She looks back over at him. “I think we ought to put the game to rest. We did all this Aiden, and – though we fought, and played dirty, and resented each other along the way, we did this. Together. Struggled through and made it to the top two positions, I mean…” she lets out a laugh. “Who’d have predicted that?”

He smiles, then, genuinely. “Well done us,” he murmurs, and she grins over at him. Something constricts inside his chest. He aches to hold her, be close to her.

Freya moves back over to where he’s sitting, and holds out her hand. Confused, he takes it, and she encourages him to stand up. “I don’t know if you meant it, earlier, when you said you hadn’t been seeing anyone. I don’t know if that means you haven’t seen anyone at all, or if it just means that you’ve had nothing serious, just a fling or something.”

“I haven’t,” he says in response, breath catching when she cups his cheek with her free hand. Her other hand is still in his, and he slowly interlocks their fingers. “Not anything. Couldn’t bring myself to.” He breathes out shakily. “I miss you.”

Her thumb strokes over his cheekbone. “I know,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he blurts out abruptly. “But – but can you – can we - ” He stops, and steadies his breathing. “Can it not be it for us?”

“You don’t want things to be over?” she asks seriously.

“No. I never did.”

Her eyes flick downwards and she bites her lip, as though considering his suggestion. Her hand has slid down from his face and is now resting gently on his chest. He nearly shivers at the contact.

“All the problems will still be there,” she points out. “I’ll still be your boss, essentially.”

He swallows and takes a chance, placing the hand that isn’t in hers on her waist. His fingers curl in the silky fabric, urging her closer to him. “Then we do what we always did,” he says.

She raises her eyebrows. “Get over our problems by having sex? That’s like putting a plaster on a gunshot wound - ”

“No,” he whispers. “No, it isn’t. We’re – you know how good we are, together.” He takes a slight step towards her, so that they are pressed up against one another. She doesn’t back away. “The fire, Freya. The passion.”

Her eyes flutter shut and she breathes in deeply through her nose. “I miss that,” she admits.

“Election night,” he says. “We were in a worse position that we are now in terms of your liking or even tolerating me. And yet we still…”

“Connected,” Freya finishes, and she pushes her hips casually into his, her lips pressed together tightly.

He lets go of her hand and wraps his arm around her waist. “Amazingly well.”

“It was a good night,” she agrees, opening her eyes and smiling at him mischievously. “The perfect congratulations-present. But…we were drunk.”

“I know. Still remember it, though. Every moment.”

“We always were very…sexual,” she says, then laughs. “What are we doing?” she asks herself and him, as he leans down and nuzzles her jaw.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he whispers against her neck, then presses kisses all the way down her throat. “But we could.”

“We could. Yeah.” Her hands slide into his hair and she tugs on it firmly; he raises his head to look at her.

Her eyes are so dark. He leans in and touches her nose with his.

“Do you still think about me?” she asks.

He grinds his lower half against hers. “What do you think?”

That's all it takes. She grabs him by the tie and fuses her mouth to his. Their teeth click together as they reacquaint themselves with each other’s mouths, tongues delving in to deepen the kiss. It’s hot and wet and messy and he scrambles to get her shirt out of her waistband, sliding his hand underneath it to trace every rib on his way up to her chest. When he slides his left hand over one of her breasts, she moans into his mouth and he pushes his hips against her, moving her backwards until she’s leaning against her desk. His free hand shoves aside some of the paperwork and pens on her desk whilst the other finds its way beneath her bra to tug her nipple. She gets the hint and sits atop the space he’s created, opening her legs for him to stand in between, her skirt riding up her thighs.

His right hand is there in an instant, sliding forwards along her thigh, nails lightly scratching at her skin and then he’s there, fingers rubbing against the wet fabric of her knickers before hooking the garment aside to touch her directly. His thumb finds her clit whilst his fingers slip inside her and all the while they are still kissing, messily, and there’s a fire in his soul and it feels so bloody good. She’s trembling and wet and glorious as he pumps his fingers into her and he’s missed this so much, feeling her cunt tighten around him, feeling her hands yank on his hair as she groans in pleasure.

And then her hands are at his belt, hurrying to undo it, tugging down his zip and shoving his trousers and boxer-briefs down as far down as necessary. His cock is already ridiculously hard, has been ever since they stopped talking about immigration and started talking about them, and as she grabs it and moves her hand up and down it hardens further. She swipes her thumb along the head, collecting pre-come, and he bites her bottom lip. He removes his hand from between her legs, the angle now too awkward with her jerking his cock at the same time, and instead he grabs hold of her hips, dragging her to the very edge of the desk. His mouth moves to her neck and she gasps as he bites, and then she’s guiding his cock towards her entrance and mumbling, “In, in, in.” He adjusts their position so that he can get there properly and then there he is, inside her for the first time in what feels like forever and jesus fucking Christ on a bike it feels fantastic.

He pulls back and thrusts into her again and she encourages his movements with her legs wrapped around his waist and filthy words panted into his ear. He groans her name and tilts her so that her back is flat against the wood of her desk; his hands come up to pin her wrists down and when he looks at her face she is smiling slackly in pleasure. He knows that in this position she’ll be coming quickly, because the angle is perfect and his pelvis is grinding into hers with every thrust. He holds her wrists down with one hand whilst the other rushes to her shirt buttons, ripping it open impatiently. Her breasts look gorgeous encased in her lacy black bra, her chest heaving and glistening with sweat. Still, he wants to see them out of their prison but as he can’t quite reach the clasp he pulls the cups down and her breasts pop free. She looks mesmerising like this, debauched, mostly clothed with him between her legs and her naked chest rubbing against his shirt and tie when he leans in close to kiss her.

It’s not long before her hips are pushing upwards and she’s moaning incoherently and he’s just as gone, just as lost, and when she shouts out his name as she comes he bites hard into her shoulder, following her rapidly, continuing to thrust until he’s completely sated and soft.

He releases her wrists and she brings her arms down to rest on the table as she pants for breath. He wants nothing more than to just stay where he is, lying atop her, but he knows she must be uncomfortable with his weight on her front and the hard surface at her back. He pushes himself up off the table and stands with shaky legs, wincing as he slips out of her. Her eyes are closed but there’s a smile on her face and he hopes that means she doesn’t regret this, won’t regret this.

He pulls up his pants and trousers and tucks himself away, waiting for Freya to say something. When she doesn’t, he sinks down into his seat to catch his breath and gather his wits. The only movement she’s made so far is to pull her bra back into position. Her shirt is ruined; the buttons have flown everywhere, so she doesn’t bother with that. Slowly, she sits up, righting her knickers and her skirt, and then she just looks at him.

He smiles awkwardly. “So, uh. Was that - ”

“It was fantastic and you know it,” she grins. He sighs in relief. “Probably not the sort of thing the Prime Minister and her deputy should get up to in her office, but…”

She shrugs, evidently not caring. No one caught them, so really, who’s going to know? Besides, it’s not like this is some sort of affair. They are still married, technically. Aiden smiles at her softly and murmurs, “So what happens now?”

Freya stands up. “Well, first things first, I need to change my shirt,” she says, walking shakily over to a cupboard in her office. She pulls out a spare blouse and quickly changes into it. Aiden just watches her quietly. “Next up, cleaning this mess,” she continues, gesturing to the desk. He jumps into action and helps her. Once everything’s sorted and back in place, she turns to him and, unexpectedly, wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. Aiden feels tears prick his eyes and he hugs her back, feeling daft for getting so emotional over a simple hug. But she hasn’t hugged him for months. Hasn’t let him hold her like this and oh god, he hopes this isn’t a one-time thing.

“Freya,” he whispers into her hair.

She pulls back to look at him, but doesn’t relinquish her hold. “Yes?”

Aiden strokes her cheek with his thumb then leans down to press a soft kiss to her lips. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry for everything that happened. I – I miss you so much.”

“I know,” she whispers back, rubbing her hand along his back soothingly. “I know.”

He buries his face in her neck and tries to hide the fact that he’s close to tears. He thinks she can probably tell anyway because she tightens her grip on him in comfort. “I love you,” he murmurs.

She kisses his temple and confesses, “I love you too.”

It’s a reply he didn’t think he’d hear and he crumbles a bit, sitting back down in his chair and pulling her down with him so that she’s on his lap, holding his head to hers, telling him she means it.


End file.
